PicFic MFU:50~ The Missing Russians Affair

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

STORY NAME: PicFic MFU:50~ The Missing Russians Affair
GENRE: Gen-Mature
WORD COUNT: 3050 approx.
RATING: Late-Teen and Above
WARNINGS: I’ve tagged this as Gen-Mature solely down to mentions of nudity. However, there is nothing graphic.




“Mr Kuryakin, if you do not calm yourself, I shall have someone from medical come up here and sedate you.”

Illya glared defiantly at Mr Waverly’s threat, but relented and retook his seat. Napoleon patted his partner’s shoulder in a gesture of support and control. He fully understood Illya’s anxiety, but the Russian needed to keep his composure if he was going to get what he was asking from Waverly.

“I’m sorry Sir,” Illya mumbled contritely. “But this really is quite a big concern for me.”

“Believe me, I understand and share your concerns,” the Old Man told him, with absolute sincerity. “Whilst these occurrences do not strictly come under our remit, I am authorising and endorsing an investigation.”

Illya sagged with relief. He’d been fully prepared to do it alone, but having the resources of U.N.C.L.E. would make things so much easier.


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The previous evening, at his favourite tearoom, Illya had overheard a conversation between two women. They were discussing the disappearances of several young Russian men. One of the women claimed to know of at least seven, whilst the other knew of four. Illya was intrigued and asked the women for further details.

“It’s only been within the last four weeks,” the older woman said, conspiratorially. “But they all have things in common.”

“Such as?”

The fact they are all aged between twenty and thirty-five, blond, blue eyed and Russian,” the younger woman explained. “You fit that bill perfectly, so you should probably take care.”

“Are the police involved?” Illya asked, wondering why he’d heard nothing of this before.

“They’ve been reported, but the police around here don’t care about immigrants.”

Illya thanked the two women and headed off to the nearest police precinct. He was aware that gossip was not a good basis for fact, but something about their words sent a shiver down his spine. Arriving at the precinct, Illya showed his U.N.C.L.E. I.D., told the desk sergeant his business and requested to see the Captain. He only had to wait for a few minutes before Captain Antony Myles came out.

“Welcome to our precinct Mr Kuryakin,” he greeted, as he shook Illya’s hand. “What can we do for the U.N.C.L.E.?”

“What can you tell me about missing Russian men?”

Captain Myles invited Illya to his office, where they were met by a young officer carrying a large stack of files.

“These are all the reports of missing Russian men Sir,” he told the Captain as he placed the files on the desk. “There are fifty all told.”

Illya was astounded. How could fifty men go missing in such a short time and have no-one take much notice?

“Immigrants go missing all the time,” Myles explained, with a dismissive shrug. “Who cares about a load of missing Russians?”

“I do!” Illya snarled. “Ya Russkiy, Kapitan. (I’m Russian, Captain). May I take those files, since you are obviously not interested?”

Captain Myles agreed to Kuryakin having the files, figuring he could trust them in the hands of U.N.C.L.E. As far as he was concerned, if they wanted to waste their time looking for a load of commies, it would save his budget.

It was quite a walk from the precinct to Illya’s apartment so he’d persuaded the Captain to get one of his officers to give him a ride home with the files. Myles agreed, only because he didn’t want to antagonise the man any further. Once home, Illya spent a couple of hours reading through the files, looking for any similarities, other than the physical appearances of the missing men. He needed to put together a case to present to Mr Waverly.


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Having gotten the green light from Mr Waverly, Napoleon and Illya went to their office to formulate a plan of action.

“Okay Tovarisch, tell me what you have so far.”

“Only the physical appearance and nationality of each man, plus contact details of the people who reported them missing.”

“That’s a start,” Napoleon commented. “We’ll get Section 4 to contact all of these people to find out these men’s movements prior to their disappearance. With any luck, there’ll be some commonalities. In the meantime, we’ll go to the neighbourhood and ask around.”

Following five hours of knocking on doors, the two agents had a lot more information than they’d had in the morning. At first, people had been wary of talking to them, especially the Russian immigrants, but Illya soon put their minds at rest. Arriving back at HQ, they were handed a huge pile of information regarding the last known movements of the missing men. Looking through the pile, they quickly matched one important fact to something they had been told repeatedly throughout the day. Several witnesses had seen the same blue van driving around the neighbourhood; always between 6 a.m. and 8 a.m.

“That time of day would suggest the men were going to work or returning from a night shift,” Napoleon postulated. “Are there any work links?”

Illya had a quick glance through the information.

“Not really,” he replied. “There are a lot of dock workers, but that is not unusual for immigrants in this city.”

“So, where do we go from here?”

“I suppose, since I fit the profile, I’ll have to get myself abducted,” Illya declared simply. “You can keep me under surveillance.”

Napoleon agreed that it was probably the best course of action.


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6 a.m. the following morning found Illya ‘walking home’ from the docklands. He was dressed in black jeans and a checked shirt. Ordinarily, he would have had a wool hat with this outfit, but he needed his blond hair to be noticeable. Within half an hour, the blue van pulled alongside of him. A heavy-set dark haired man wound down the window and called to him.

“Tovarisch, vy Russkiy?” (Comrade, are you Russian?) The man asked.

“Da,” Illya responded. “Kto vy?” (Yes. Who are you?)

Before he knew it, Illya was on the ground with a sleep dart in his shoulder. Napoleon Solo and Mark Slate watched as Illya was unceremoniously tossed into the back of the van.

“Time for some answers,” Mark muttered, as he set off to follow the van.

Throughout the journey, two more young men were thrown into the van with Illya.

“Someone must have a very specific fetish,” Napoleon commented as the third man was taken.

They tailed the van for quite some time until they arrived into one of New York’s more affluent areas. The vehicle passed through the guarded electric gates of a rather grand house, meaning Mark and Napoleon could no longer follow. Illya was now on his own. The two agents parked up nearby in order to do an, on foot, reconnaissance of the perimeter of the house and grounds. They discovered two guards on the gate, four around the perimeter and one on each of the six balconies. For reasons they couldn’t begin to fathom, all the guards were armed with crossbows.

“We’ll go back to HQ and put a task force together,” Solo told Mark.


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Inside the house, Illya came to with his standard drugged-sleep headache. He groggily realised he’d been stripped naked and rolled his eyes at the inevitability of it. How come Napoleon always managed to avoid being stripped, he thought to himself. Glancing round the bare room, which seemed to be some sort of cellar, Illya saw the slumbering forms of two other men. They too were naked and had a chain around their waists. Wrist shackles were attached to the chains. Looking down at himself, Illya saw that he was in the same state. His first instinct was to escape, but that would have defeated the object.

The only light in the room came from the barred window in the heavy steel door, and with some difficulty, Illya clambered to his feet and looked out through the window. That sight which greeted him caused his stomach to knot. The walls of the next room were lined with tall, narrow cages. Each one was just large enough to allow its occupant to stand up or sit down. Many of the cages contained a naked, blond man, shackled the same as Illya. Some of them were gagged and all were blindfolded. There were two guards in the room, one of whom glanced up sharply at an unintentional gasp from Illya.

“Call Madam,” he told the other guard. “One of the new ones is awake.”

“What is this place?” Illya demanded.

The guard stalked over to him.

“I would advise silence,” he quietly told the prisoner. “Madam doesn’t allow her stock to speak without permission.”

“Stock?”

“You won’t get another warning.”

Illya opened his mouth to ask another question, but changed his mind when he found a crossbow bolt pointed at his face. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of maniac armed their guards with crossbows. His attention was dragged from the bolt by the entrance of the woman he assumed to be ‘Madam’.

She was dressed in the very latest high fashion, despite being almost thirty years too old for a miniskirt. The woman smile like a predator at Illya and welcomed him to his new life.

“I don’t understand,” Illya said to her. “Who are you?”

“I am your new owner,” she told him sweetly, with a clipped English accent. “As such, if you speak again without leave, you will be punished.”

She ordered the guards to bring him out. Illya made a show of struggling, which earned him a stinging slap across his face. They stood him the middle of the room while Madam walked around and inspected him. Illya had long ago lost any sense of dignity about having his manhood on show, yet the way she looked at him made him squirm. She closely checked his teeth and genitals, before stepping back to give him a final appraisal.

“You’re a little on the short side, you list slightly to the right and your ears stick out at the top. However, you have excellent muscle, and I know many ladies who will pay handsomely for a man with eyes so blue.”

It finally dawned on Illya exactly what was happening. This woman was a slave-trader and she obviously dealt exclusively in Russian males.

“Bring this one and four others, there will be clients arriving shortly,” Madam ordered the guards. “Don’t blindfold the new one. His eyes are definitely a selling point.”

Illya sent a silent plea out to his partner. If he wasn’t rescued soon, who knew where he would end up?


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“The house belongs to Victoria Wellington-Stanley,” Mark told Napoleon, reading from the information the computers had provided. “Born in Buckingham, England. She’s fifty-seven, widowed and childless.”

“Anything in there about why she is kidnapping blond men?”

“Possibly,” Mark continued. “There are rumours that she holds very select gatherings, to which only women are invited. The women seem to go in alone and come out on the arm of a blond man. It seems that neighbours have raised concerns in the past, but Mrs Wellington-Stanley is ridiculously wealthy, and can therefore make many difficulties disappear.”

“So what you’re telling me here Mark, is that Illya is probably going to be sold into slavery to some pampered woman who wants a plaything.”

“Yes Napoleon,” Slate confirmed. “And please stop grinning, this is a serious matter.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Napoleon agreed, unable to wipe the smile from his face. “Let’s get a team together and go get him out.”


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The five men were placed on a large round dais in the centre of a bizarrely decorated round room. The walls were painted with a mural of autumn trees. The trunks were bare and the leaves were red and orange. Between the trees, the artist had painted a low lying mist which hovered over a murky looking swamp. There was a circle of tasteful chairs around the room, which were grey and had orange and red cushions.

Illya tried to ignore the hideous mural, wishing he were blindfolded like the others. What he really couldn’t get his head around, was why a wealthy New York socialite would be involved in such a thing as slavery. A few minutes later, Madam entered the room, followed by ten other mature women. They all made appreciative noises at the sight of the captive men.

“Please take a seat ladies,” Madam invited, with a sweeping gesture around the room. “This is an example of the merchandise I provide. As you know, I only supply blond Russians, as I personally believe them to be the perfect specimens of the male species. If none of these are to your liking, then I have a many more in stock. I do have one here today which I think you will all appreciate. He may not be as tall as many of you would like, but I draw your attention to his face.”

Madam took hold of the chain around Illya’s waist and dragged him from the dais. She paraded him around like a racehorse in the show ring, making sure each woman got a good looked at him. One of the ladies couldn’t help herself and reached out a hand to the beautiful man before her. Illya stepped away from her and earned himself another slap from Madam.

“I know it’s tempting Mrs Akins,” she addressed the tactile woman. “But kindly refrain from handling the merchandise.”

Mrs Akins apologised, and then offered $5,000 for the man.

“Six!” Another woman shouted, who had fallen deeply for the beautiful blue eyes.

Madam raised her hand to quieten them down. “I don’t generally auction my stock, but I can see that this one has gotten you all fired up. I suggest we send the other four back to their cages and, while you take some refreshments, the room shall be rearranged.”

Half an hour later, Illya was alone on the dais and on his knees. In that time he’d managed to earn himself three further slaps to the face and now had two crossbows trained on him. He doubted he would be shot, as it would seem he was of high value, but he decided not to take any unnecessary risks. All the chairs had been moved so that Illya faced them all at once. As the women re-entered the room, the Russian had never felt so vulnerable. A four day session with THRUSH’s finest torturers would have been preferable to this humiliation.

Once the buyers were settled, Madam stepped onto the dais beside Illya. She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled his head back, eliciting a grunt of displeasure from him.

“I believe the bidding was up to six thousand ladies. Who wishes to re-commence?”

The bidding was frenzied, giving Illya a sense of being in a shark tank. The price had reached $35,000, when a masculine voice put in a bid.

“One dollar,” Napoleon Solo called out as he stepped into the room, closely followed by mark Slate and two other agents. The guards in the room were speedily taken care of.

Using sleep darts, the ten man assault team had quickly and cleaning stormed the house. Napoleon had heard the women shouting their bids from outside the room, so had cracked the door open to peer inside. Despite the gravity of the situation, Solo couldn’t help but smile at his partner’s predicament. It was always Illya that seemed to end up in the more awkward situations, as though the universe truly did have it in for him.

While Mark and the other two agents dealt with the women, Napoleon unchained Illya and offered him his own jacket until the Russian’s clothes could be found.

“One Dollar Napoleon? You think I’m only worth one dollar?”

Napoleon laughed. “For a communist, you make an excellent capitalist.”


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Within the hour, the house was swarming with police and U.N.C.L.E. operatives. Even Alexander Waverly himself had arrived on the scene. Napoleon greeted him as he entered.

“It would appear that Mr Kuryakin’s instincts were correct,” the Old Man commented, as he watched several terrified socialites being led away in handcuffs. “There are a lot of lawyers who are going to be getting very rich, very soon.”

“That is what worries me Sir,” Solo told his boss. “They all have a lot of power and money.”

Waverly offered Napoleon one of his rare smiles.

“We have taken on more powerful people than these Mr Solo. Rest assured, U.N.C.L.E. will make certain that these women are prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Where is Mr Kuryakin?”

Illya, who had thankfully found his own clothes, was taking charge of the other captives. He’d managed to organise clothes and food for them, and was explaining what was happening to those who had limited English.

“Ah, Mr Kuryakin, here you are.”

Illya nodded a greeting to Mr Waverly and introduced him to the men.

“It will take a little while but we should get them home to their families today,” Waverly told him. “We have seized the records and papers and hope to soon trace those men who have been already sold.”

“Thank you Sir,” Illya said, before relaying the message. “And thank you for trusting me. I know it wasn’t really U.N.C.L.E. business.”

“On the contrary Mr Kuryakin,” Mr Waverly countered. “Whether it is a country, a government, or an individual, we are dedicated to fighting any form of oppression. When you have finished here, go home. I can wait until tomorrow afternoon for your report.”

With that, Waverly left, leaving a bemused Kuryakin behind him. The Old Man didn’t give time off lightly, even though was only a few hours. As he went out, Napoleon came in.

“Come on chum, time to get you out of here.”

“I can’t go yet,” Illya protested. “Some of them don’t know a lot of English.”

“It’s okay,” Solo assured him. “Mark is going to take over, and he speaks reasonable Russian. I know you’re no doubt hungry, so how about a late lunch?”

“Actually, do you mind if I just went home for now? I have a very desperate need to take a long, hot shower.”

“Not a problem Tovarisch,” Napoleon agreed. He could understand Illya’s need to feel clean. “How about I take you out for dinner then?”

“That’s how rumours start,” Illya replied with a chuckle.



The End.